Free-Fall
by Trump Card of the Show
Summary: "Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind. And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind." -William Shakespeare. His appearance, his sound, his scent, his touch. I loved it. I loved it all. I was intoxicated with him, under his spell. He was simply magnetizing, a curse bound to never let me go. Yet what we had, whatever it was, was never meant to be.


It hurt.

It hurt to look at him.

To know that I still loved him after two years of him constantly dismissing me, as if I wasn't there at all. To know that he wasn't mine to hold. It was aggravating how right he felt in between my arms, but were never there. He was never there.

Yet I couldn't help but shift my head in the slightest of ways to catch a peek of his sharp-as-glass jaw and cheekbones. There was something entrancing about him. Something that gravitated me towards him. It was an alluring melody, a drug, if you will.

It was in the way he walked, the slight saunter of his step, as if he knew I couldn't resist him. The glint in his eyes, sparkling ever so bright, always alert and aware.

His appearance, his sound, his scent, his touch.

I loved it.

I loved it all.

I was intoxicated with him. Under his spell. He was simply magnetizing. A curse, bound to never let me go. We would be together for almost every hour, every minute, every second of the day. Parting only when absolutely necessary.

Yet it was never meant to be. Two men, both political leaders and in the top ranks, disobeying the law and the civilians. An opposer was bound to speak.

And they had. Another political leader, opposing against our ways, eyes of greed, only wanting to take the stage.

It was a words were disdainful and venomous. Each syllable was a poisoned dagger plunging deeper into a gaping tear until there was nothing but blood and ashes. A vile combination; both venom and words. How easily it could turn a man into a maccabre pile of what had remained.

Combinations of letters and phrases spewed out of mouths, and the look of despair in his eyes were too much to bear. I could feel my shield crack into tiny and even tinier particles.

Until it broke.

Rage, combined with raw sorrow filled the room.

Surprisingly, it wasn't me, but of _him. _

His voice boomed and bellowed powerfully. Raspy and loud. Taut snake-like veins emerged from the pressure in his fists and neck. His eyes were frightening and dark and sad and desperate.

The coldest I've seen them.

He departed shortly after the incident.

* * *

He told me that this wasn't working out.

That we weren't working out. Bluntly and straightforward. As if whatever we had had hadn't impacted him in any sort of way. I knew him better. He was hurting. He kept on his facade so that I wouldn't know that he felt the pain of it. And there was a look in his eye, he looked afraid. And I was desperate, I wanted to hold his hand, tell him that everything would be fine. I wanted to touch his face and kiss his eyelids once more. Once more before he disappeared.

Once more before he told me that he didn't love me anymore.

But I stayed still and motionless. To afraid too move.

Like an assault on my chest, I struggled to breath. My lungs died in my abdomen as his ghostly figure walked away.

I resorted to a private place before my legs gave way under me. I wanted to cry. I wanted the tears to roll down my cheeks and I wanted to scream and let it out and let _everything _out and I wanted to pound the walls with my fist and I wanted to run away. But it wouldn't help anything if I were to do so. Instead, I poured myself a glass of whiskey and sat down where he would've sat down and talked to myself how he would've talked to me.

* * *

Betrayal hurt more than the Words. Pressure pushing into your chest, suffocating your lungs and resonated with a prolonged sharp ache. I spent the day immobile, like the day he told me he didn't love me anymore. Staring at the tacky popcorn ceiling I'd had since my childhood days. I thought about nothing and everything all at once. My head pounding with ideas and thoughts scattered and unplotted. I tried so hard -too hard- to forget him.

Though, as an outcome of constant pondering over ideals and expectations, I realized that trying to forget is pointless. Completely and utterly ludicrous. Whatever or whoever you're trying to forget will simply be tucked away into the corner of your mind, and you'll go on with life. Thinking that you've moved on. Thinking that the gaping ache subsided.

Foolish.

How foolish all of this was. To trust someone with the power to break down your walls, to make you crumble, to incinerate you into ashes. To crash through your castle walls. To give them the key for your fortress. To find their way into your heart. And surely you'll sit there, saying _I trusted you_. When in reality, it was _all your fault_. I guess it serves us right to trust someone else with ourselves.

But then of course, you're left there. Disappointed. Disappointed in yourself that you actually fell for this person.

And I could've loved him. I did in fact. But love him in the way that he should have been loved. The way that he wanted to be loved. Hold him in between my arms so tight that he would've never escaped, not that he would ever want to. And it would be just us two. And we would talk the way we talked and we would laugh the way we laughed. And I would tenderly caress the side of his face like I would and he would lean into my hand like he would.

_Two men, torn apart from each other because people were "sickened by such a disgrace."_

And it was gone, what he had. It ended it seconds, but the aching still resonated. And I felt it all too well -an old friend to me. I held on too much, too tight. It hurt too much.

_I could've loved him._

**So I'm trying to get into the habit of updating quicker and proof-reading my older works. How's this? Blind Eyes 2.0. :) Another thing-a-ma-doo, what about the title?**

**I don't quite like it, a bit bland to me. But, how do y'all like it? Also, what about my writing style..? Has it changed or anything? Did I improve? :D**


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